


atonement

by insincerely



Series: the equation of exoneration [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Bottom T'Challa (Marvel), Choking, Cousin Incest, Dubious Consent, M/M, Spoilers, basically some dark t'cherik content no one asked for, kind of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 15:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13720830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insincerely/pseuds/insincerely
Summary: But here, right now, T'Challa yields, just as he always does with Erik. Because what his people see as a criminal, a warrior, amonster, T'Challa sees as a broken man.





	atonement

_Many say that there is strength in forgiving, but asking for forgiveness comes in equal measure, if not more_ , T'Challa remembers reading these words long ago, back when he’d frequent the palace’s library to soak in the vast collection of worn, leatherbound books, its pages yellowed by time. _There is no enemy worse than pride after all, and to humble yourself for one’s mercy is the true testament of what it is to be a man._

 _To humble myself is to be a man_ , T'Challa repeats idly now, with his thighs spread and arms held above his head, Erik’s grip tight and sure around his wrists as he fucks T'Challa in deep, measured thrusts.

It’s the perfect picture of surrender, far above simply being humble, and T'Challa, despite the shame and the guilt and the bile that rises up his throat sometimes when Erik groans and says his name in that anguished way of his, perseveres. He perseveres as a king would, and beyond that, as the son of a man who wronged Erik– _N'Jadaka_ – in a way that can only be repaired by death, or–

Or _this_ , with Erik using T'Challa like no one’s ever used him before, driving his cock in again and again and again until T'Challa’s burning from the inside, torn apart by the raw emotion– by all the words Erik’s left unsaid and would rather speak through the language of touch.

_Look at you, letting me fuck you– letting your own cousin touch you like this, you’re disgusting–_

_I could kill you right now, wring your neck while you’re taking my cock–_

_You took everything away from me– now I’ll take you, all of you, to myself. I’ll fucking ruin you, T'Challa–_

There is no love in what they do, T'Challa knows this– the finger-shaped bruises on his skin and Erik’s utter refusal to look him in the eyes whenever they fuck is testament enough, but then again, who is T'Challa if not tender and earnest?

“N'Jadaka–” he gasps out when Erik buries himself to the hilt, feels the intense throbbing of Erik’s cock inside of him, like a brand reminding him that here, in this moment, Erik has him, completely and irrevocably.

A pause follows, then before T'Challa can process the enormity of his mistake, a hand closes around his neck, swift and without preamble even when T'Challa chokes at the raw strength of his hold.

“You don’t get to call me that." Erik hisses, and in the low light of the room T'Challa meets his eyes, dark and glinting. The hand around his throat tightens, squeezing hard enough that T'Challa’s sure there will be bruises, just as there are around his wrists and on his hips. While some might think of it as punishment, maybe even abuse, T'Challa knows better– it is Erik’s absolution in the making.

“I… I did not mean… to–” T'Challa barely manages to wheeze out, getting progressively lightheaded the more Erik pins him down like this, choking and fucking him like he’s nothing more than a ragdoll. If this were any other time with any other person, T'Challa would’ve struck them where they stood long before they’d even laid a hand on him.

But here, right now, T'Challa yields, just as he always does with Erik. Because what his people see as a criminal, a warrior, a _monster_ , T'Challa sees as a broken man. No– not a man, but a boy who’s had everything taken away from him and then some, left to grow up in a side of the world T'Challa’s only ever heard of– and ultimately witnessed, in his adult years, to be cold and ruthless. Unkind.

“You call me Erik, or _cousin_ , if that’s the shit you’re into.” Erik sneers, the tug at the corner of his lips malicious and taunting. Then it disappears as fast as it came, replaced by a grim expression. “But never my birth name. I don’t give a fuck if you’re king, you don’t have the fucking _right_ –”

His fingers clench tighter, the veins at the back of his hand prominent. T'Challa gulps hard, knows that if Erik were to truly want it, he could burst T'Challa’s capillaries, crushing his windpipe with enough force drawn from sheer fury.

“Y…yes…” T'Challa’s voice comes out weak, withered by the lack of air in his lungs, and the sound seems to bring some marginal satisfaction because Erik loosens his grip right after. T'Challa coughs, eyes red-rimmed and watery as he breathes, greedy and wrecked.

Erik gives him merely a few seconds to recover before he’s taking T'Challa by the hips instead, his hold still as powerful as he pulls out in one fluid motion before fucking back into T'Challa’s tight heat. This time, his thrusts are unrelenting, plowing T'Challa into the mattress so hard the springs squeak beneath their weight, mixing in with T'Challa’s hoarse, broken gasps.

Something glints between them, swinging and jolting along with Erik’s movements, hanging over T'Challa’s face like a reminder– a truth that he can never ignore or refuse.

It’s the ring Erik’s father had given him– a symbol of Wakandan royalty, of Erik and him sharing the same bloodline. T'Challa stares, takes in the intricacy of its design despite having the exact same one around his finger.

This is part of the punishment, knowing that he is related to the man who’s above and inside him, ruining him for anyone else until there is nothing left for Erik to do but to forgive. All in due time.

 _Humble yourself_ , T'Challa repeats the words internally, a mantra to keep himself at bay as Erik starts to tense, all the way from his shoulders down to his toes– a sure sign that he’s close to his orgasm.

T'Challa parts his thighs wider, a silent invitation for Erik to slot himself further in between T'Challa's legs. Erik rewards him by snapping his hips harder, the slick sound of his dick sliding into T'Challa oppressively loud in the quiet of the room.

“Fuck,” Erik curses under his breath, eyes transfixed on the rapid up and down of T'Challa’s chest, the way his body seems to move and jerk along with Erik’s thrusts, completely at his mercy. He moves his hands from T'Challa’s hips, instead gripping the meat of his thighs, keeping them apart so he can grind into that delicious heat.

T'Challa can’t help but whimper as Erik’s cockhead presses into his prostate, his own cock jerking once before he’s coming, one of his hands scrabbling to close around Erik’s forearm. He holds on, that sole touch his only anchor to reality as he comes and comes and comes, ears hot and lips parted.

Erik follows soon after, fucking T'Challa once, twice, thrice through his orgasm before he pushes _in_ and stays, wrapped in nothing but exquisite heat and tightness. He comes inside T'Challa, makes sure he feels each hot spurt as Erik hefts him up in the last minute, squeezing his ass cheeks together so he tightens all the more around Erik.

T'Challa’s face burns with a mixture of white-hot shame and insurmountable pleasure, obedient as he clenches his asshole around Erik. It’s pure bliss for a few minutes, both of them basking in the aftermath of their desire, and it’s only when Erik starts to withdraw that T'Challa is able to drag himself back to reality.

“Don't let a single drop come out.” Erik says then, his voice deadpan, like he’s speaking about something as mundane as the weather. He sits on his haunches before T'Challa, reaching out to ease a finger into that swollen, used hole. “Keep me here.”

T'Challa nods, the jerk of his head frantic as Erik rubs against his oversensitive walls, seemingly for the fun of watching T'Challa squirm more than anything else. His finger comes out slick, shiny under the light of the bedside lamp, and he sneers as he jabs that same finger into T'Challa’s chest.

“You’re a sick fuck.” Erik spits, but there’s not much heat to his voice as compared to the first few times they’ve done this. In fact, there’s even a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he watches T'Challa scramble to reach behind himself, plugging two of his fingers in to keep Erik’s cum from dripping out.

To anyone else, it might not mean much; just another cruelty Erik doles out on a daily basis. But to T'Challa, it is a step in the right direction. It is his penance at work, both for his father and for himself, and if he ends up destroying himself in the process–

“What a good king you are.” Erik drawls out, eyes raking over T'Challa’s prone form, something carnal hidden behind the omnipresent rage. T'Challa shivers under his gaze, but in a way that is not completely unpleasant.

–and if T'Challa ends up destroying himself in the process, then the world– no, _Erik_ , will be all the better for it.

**Author's Note:**

> marvel really thought they were gonna stop me from shipping t'cherik with that bad bloodline retcon huh? you fools. i've only grown more powerful after watching the movie.


End file.
